


The Idiot’s Guide to Attending a Con

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Conventions, F/F, Fluff and Humor, Humanstuck, M/M, nerds being nerds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-14 23:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19283848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: At the behest of his sister and her wife, twenty-one-year-old aspiring musician, Dave Strider, is attending a comic convention. Acting as the third wheel, he has little interest in actually going, and is only doing so to placate his sister’s dogged insistence that he “has more social interactions with others” and “stops being such an enigmatic little hermit.” He has no intention of engaging with much of anything at this gathering, save for the concessions. Plans change, however, and he ends up gravitating to an artist alley stand, run by a certain Karkat Vantas.





	1. Day One: Canvas the Venue

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a fun little diddle i've thought up. it's nothing big or complicated.

**11:30**

According to the printed out pamphlet in his hands, the convention begins at noon. The group he is with—comprised of himself, his sister, and her wife—will be parking in the convention center’s parasitically conjoined parking deck, for a moderate fee of ten dollars per day. The event spans three days, and the hours are different for each. Today, the convention will end at 10:00 PM.

Despite the fact that the group has arrived early, the parking garage is already packed. From his vantage point, crammed awkwardly into a far too tiny space, in the back of his sister’s pastel pink Volkswagen Beetle, Dave Strider watches their progress. After finding no available spaces on any of the other decks, a spot is eventually located on the topmost level. Small groups, much like his own, idle about, conversing with one another.

“It appears that we have approximately thirty minutes before the convention doors open,” says Kanaya. Today, she is dressed like Leia. Hand-woven netting encapsulates faux buns, which bookend either side of her head, blending seamlessly with her natural, coarse black hair. Her skin, flawless as always, is a deep, dark brown, and her full lips are pulled into a small smile. She knows that this isn’t Dave’s preferred variety of social event, but she won’t say that. Instead, she discusses something entirely different. “You understand the plans for today, do you not?”

“I do,” Dave shrugs. He folds his arms across his chest and worms around, trying desperately to find a comfortable position. “Enlighten me again, though, I’m sure some kibble sized tidbit of insanely fascinating planning slipped my mind.”

From her spot, in the driver’s seat, Rose sighs. Her relation to Dave is undeniable. The pair share the same pale skin, (though Rose is a few shades darker) and angular facial features. Both are blond, though Dave’s hair edges more towards platinum than Rose’s. Unlike Kanaya, she isn’t specifically dressed as anyone; rather, she is clad in a handmade renaissance style outfit. “Must you be so insincere about everything, David?”

“Totes,” Dave flashes a smirk. “So, give me the lowdown. Make it so goddamned lowdown that even the world’s best limbo master would break their back trying to get details so fuckin’ tight.” When he speaks, there’s a distinctive drawl in his voice, and a slight slur to his words. Vowels drop and blend together, flowing, like heart-clogging, melted butter.

Kanaya, pointedly ignoring Dave’s strange phrasing, elaborates on the details of the day. “You, of course, are free to do as you please, and entertain yourself in whatever strange way you choose. Rose and I will be attending several celebrity autograph tables, and enjoying the 3:00 author’s panel.”

“Awesome. I’ll be sure to text you and update you whenever I do anything.” Dave waves his hand, imbuing in the action as much dismissive energy as he can. He then opens the door, and extracts himself from his seat.

Outside, the air is humid, but not hot. There’s an unpleasant, sticky quality, which drives Dave to flee into the shelter of the nearby enclosed stairwell.

 

**12:00**

The doors open promptly at noon, not a second before, nor a second after. From the fairly sparse, but still sizable crowd, there’s a sudden ebbing motion. People file inside, into the comfort of the air conditioned convention center, and to the check-in tables.

Alongside Rose and Kanaya, Dave is handed a laminated convention pass. The body of the pass, shaped like a credit card, is bright green, and a strip of white on the right side informs everyone that he is a proud owner of a three day VIP pass. (His cursory examination of the convention info indicated that VIP passes were granted priority at autograph tables, reserved panel seating, discounted food, and access to the after-hours parties on all three nights.) Mirroring the actions of everyone around him, he hangs it around his neck, using the provided length of puke-like green lanyard rope.

“This is the perfect time to canvas the venue,” Rose says, enthusiastically, as she studies a map of the convention center. “The panel and event rooms aren't open yet, and I'm going to assume that they won't open until it's necessary. I don't think that's an unreasonable stretch of the imagination, so I vote we go and look through exhibition hall. I'm certain that's where most of the activity will be this early, anyhow.”

“Excellent idea, as always,” chimes Kanaya. She offers her hand to Rose.

With the two women holding hands and shooting unabashedly affectionate gazes between one another, Dave falls back, staying a few paces away from the ogling action. Nevertheless, he follows them. They lead him down a wide hallway, flanked, on the right, by a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. Through these openings pour a steady stream of sunlight, which is only broken by the occasional passing cloud. A few convention-goers bask in this light, sitting in its warmth, and using nearby outlets to charge their presumably low phone batteries.

“While we're here, we should also stop by table A12,” says Kanaya, peering at her phone, which is held in her free hand. “That's Karkat's booth.”

“Oh! I almost forgot about that!” Rose laughs. It's a phenomenon of sorts, the way she loosens up around Kanaya. “Yes, we'll have to pay him a visit.” For the briefest of moments, the two women's hands part. Rose scribbles a note on her printed copy of the map. Then, returning her pen to her bag, she once again takes Kanaya's hand. “He sells jewelry, doesn't he?”

Kanaya offers a thoughtful hum. “I suppose you could say that. He's more of a craftsman, selling a little bit of everything. He specializes in leather accessories,” here, she raises her voice slightly, “And, before you say something, Dave, it's strictly fashion. He makes cuff style bracelets and whatnot. Apparently, it's a bit of a family profession.”

Dave, with his joke already shot down, rolls his eyes. He scuffs his shoe against the ground and rubs the back of his neck. In a rarity for him, Dave remains silent.

In this same silence, he continues to trail behind the rest of his party. He glances at the various tables, and notes which ones are of some sort of interest to him. He also makes a mental note to avoid the large booth at the front, which is selling replicas of various fictional swords.

After some time, perhaps an hour, he breaks from the two. He goes to the concessions area, which occupies the entire back wall, and grabs himself a pre-boxed Styrofoam container of fries and chicken. It's nothing to lose any shit about, but it's not horrible. He'd eat it again, if he had to, but he figures that, for the next few days, he'll just follow Rose and Kanaya to whatever nearby restaurant they hit up.

 

**14:15**

Dave ends up wandering around, alone, for some time. Eventually, though, he manages to find and rejoin his tiny party.

The two stand in front of an otherwise overlooked stand, with little more than a flimsy Staples-printed banner hanging over it. “Handmade leather accessories” is emblazoned upon the fabric, white text against a black background. Similarly, the table, itself, is draped with a solid black cloth. In the space behind the booth is a vaguely familiar man, who Dave can somewhat remember meeting (somewhere, at some point). Strands of his wild, lightly curled black hair fall into his medium brown face. His features are soft, a stark contrast with his sharply furrowed brows and distinct, pointed, and slightly crooked nose. Hunched over a small section of completed chainmail, he works with both speed and precision.

“Ah! David!” Rose smiles. “This is Karkat, one of Kanaya's friends. You've met before.”

Dave frowns. “We have?”

Karkat looks up, then snarls. “Oh.  _You_. Of course you don't remember. It was only a few months ago, stupid. You got drunk at your sister's wedding, and ended up trying to dance with me.”

“I did?” Dave swallows. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, and struggles to push back, against the heat, which is rising to his cheeks. “I don't—”

“No, you don't. You ended up puking on my rental tuxedo, too.” A loud sigh punctuates this statement. Karkat sets his tools down, flattens out his work, and turns to face his only customers. “But, we're in public, so I have to act like I don't think you're a massive prick.” He offers a rough, calloused hand out, and a clearly fake smile spreads across his face. “Hello. My name is Karkat Vantas. You want to buy something, or you want to just fuck off?”

Both Rose and Kanaya laugh.

Dave simply buries his hands in his pockets, then pointedly avoids meeting the other man's gaze. “I'll uh... I guess I'll buy some shit.” He reaches out, picks up a leather cuff bracelet, and slides it across the table.

Karkat, meanwhile, shakes his head. “That's a women's size, you dense piece of shit.” He leans over, rifles through a box on the floor, and pulls out another bracelet. It's identical to the one Dave had chosen. The leather is a dark tan, and an iron disk, emblazoned with the image of a crow, is set into its surface. With one hand, he resets the item Dave had chosen; his other hand records information into a small black notebook. “This is the men's size. It's fifty dollars.”

There's a moment of hesitation, during which Dave considers buying something else, is ultimately overshadowed by his embarrassment. He hands over the cash.

“Awesome. Now, no offense to Kanaya and Rose, since both of you are reasonable human beings, but I'd like to keep the space clear for other people to come look at my shit. I'll see you guys later, though.” Karkat rips the page out of his book, and hands it to Dave.

Written on the page, in bold red ink, is information on the purchase.

 

**15:15**

“What are you doing back here?” Karkat eyes Dave warily, his gaze dripping with palpable animosity. “Go and bug the ever-loving shit out of your sister.”

“They’re at a panel for writers right now, so I ain’t really interested. Writing ain’t my shit, you feel me?” Dave rolls his shoulders, sighing as his right lets forth a soft pop. “Uh... How’s business going?”

Karkat rolls his eyes. He gestures to his table, still fully stocked with the same goods as before. “How does it fucking look, you half-baked Ouran bastard?”

Dave pauses. He considers his words; then, he contemplates the meaning of the table. “Okay. Fair.”

Karkat counters with a low growl. He leans back in his seat and folds his hands behind his head. “The first day isn’t usually very busy. There’s nothing really groundbreaking about low sales today. Not that you’d fucking know, seeing as you strike me as the last person to regularly attend cons.”

“You’re right about that!” Dave says, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. He reels himself back in. Play it off, keep it cool. “I mean... I’d uh...”

“If you’re not buying shit, please take a hike to the nearest volcano, and hurl yourself in. Thank you!” Shaking his head, Karkat returns to his leather-working. His hands move with purpose and instinct. It’s obvious that he knows what he’s doing. He’s experienced. In a way, Dave envies him; if only _he_ was as talented at something. (Instead, he considers himself more of a Jack of all trades, master of none sort of deal.)

And, in an inexplicable effort to stay longer, to study the artful craftsmanship that’s happening before him, he whips out his wallet. He fumbles with the first thing he can find—a pair of black fingerless gloves, the backs of which are emblazoned with an ornate, etched design—and slides them across the table.

Karkat barely looks up. “Eighty.”

“Great.” Dave slaps the cash down.

Karkat takes it, then, in silence, continues to work.

“You do some good shit. I mean, it’s solid as fuck, my man. It’s tight as hell, to be real,” Dave mumbles. He slips on the gloves. Even in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the exhibition hall, the flourishing design is admirable. Even as he continues to ramble, he studies the intricately rendered lines. “Where’d you learn to do this?”

“My Dad was a leatherworker. It’s a family trade.”

“Oh. Yeah. Just remembered that Kanaya mentioned that.”

“So, are you just going to keep standing there, gawking, with a slack-jawed maw of insipid stupidity, or what?”

Dave shrugs. “Are you usually this rude to your customers, or should I be flattered?”

“You should be embarrassed as fuck, you twit. I’m rude to you, specifically, because you puked on me less than a year ago. It’s not as if this event is something that’s in the past. This is within recent memory. Since the tux was a rental, it also cost me a fucking lovely penny.” Karkat pauses. He leans over his work, studying it intently, before shaking his head. He kneads his knuckles against the table. “Look, from what I understand, you’ll be with Rose and Kanaya every day this weekend. So, if you want to come bother me, do it some other time. You’re distracting me.”

Though vaguely disappointed with his dismissal, Dave obeys. He shuffles away from the vendor’s table, wandering, instead, to the concessions area.

 

**17:00**

Having managed to fall asleep in the hallway, soaking in the mid-spring sun, which streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Dave finds himself being rudely woken by a familiar voice.

“There's a sort of inexplicable irony to a Tamaki Suoh cosplayer sleeping on the ground, like a homeless anime hobo. It has an amount of  _je ne sais quois_ , really. What, did you spend all of your money on my products, in an unfathomably stupid attempt to hang out with someone, who  _isn't_ your sister?”

“Or her wife,” Dave says, still a bit groggy from his impromptu nap. “What're you doing?”

“I'm eating. Maybe you haven't noticed, what with your head being shoved fifteen miles up your own ass, but people need to  _eat_ to  _survive_.” As he says this, Karkat takes a large bite of the foil-wrapped gyro in his hand.

“Fuck. Where'd you get that? Looks a whole lot better than the bland, McDonnie's grade bullshit they're selling in there,” as if Karkat wouldn't know what he's referencing, Dave obtusely points to the exhibition hall's entrance.

“There's a place nearby. It's just down the street.” Another bite. Karkat seems to mull over his words; or, perhaps, he's just being polite, and not speaking with a mouth full of food. “Freaky Freddy's. I'm a regular on the convention circuits of around this special, humid pit of American hell. I know where to eat, and what places to avoid. I grew up tagging along with my Dad, coming to this sort of shit. I'm sure that doesn't matter to you. Hell, your puny little brain has already let the words I've said flow right out its waste chute, right?”

“Yeah,” Dave shrugs. He responds as he would to one of Rose's verbose tirades. “Sure.”

And, to his surprise, Karkat counters with a laugh. It's a loud, somewhat nasal sound. It's not unattractive, but it's certainly not conventionally attractive. “Whatever, nerd. I'm going back to my table. I saw Rose and Kanaya, by the way. They're looking for their lost child, which I'd fucking assume is you.”

“Asshole.” In spite of what he says, Dave finds his thoughts drifting to Karkat—to the way he smiles, and speaks, and laughs. He thinks about the way his hair, wild as it is, falls gently into his face; of how the edges of his lips reveal so much about his mood.

 

**16:30**

“You're telling me that you're already out of spending money?” Rose groans, her knuckles paling as he grips the steering wheel. “Dammit, Dave, when Karkat says to pay or fuck off, you're supposed to leave! But, fine, whatever. I'll provide you with a small bit of extra money. You'd better be grateful for your sister-in-law, seeing as her magnificent fashion empire is funding this entire venture.”

Dave, from his cramped spot in the back of the car, pouts. “I didn't even want to come. Shit, I don’t know who I'm supposed to be dressed as right now!”

“Well, I can't just let you go without any sort of fashionable costuming, now, can I?” Kanaya tuts.

“You're Tamaki Suoh, from  _Ouran High School Host Club_ ,” provides Rose.

Dave shrugs. In the back of his mind, he recalls Karkat's offhanded comment. “Okay. At least I know I'm going as fuckin’ Daredevil tomorrow.”

“Yes, we did have to bow to your incessant pestering, and allow you to pick some of your own costumes. Alas, Matt Murdock isn't a very unique costume design...” Rose's voice trails off.

Kanaya yawns.

The car's stereo slowly turns up, and the trio drives back to their hotel. The short ride is in tune with the smooth jazz on the radio, and interrupted by two red lights. Once back at the hotel, all three members of the party swiftly prepare for bed.


	2. Day Two: Purchases and Panels

**12:30**

Dave Strider tugs at the freshly starched fabric of his suit. He fixes his shades and polishes his loafers, quietly rubbing them on the felted underside of the passenger’s seat. “Karkat is going to be here again?”

“Of course,” Kanaya says. The rear view mirror reveals that a perplexed look has crossed her face. “We’re late, in fact, so he’s probably already here. Why?”

“I dunno,” Dave lies. He pauses, considers that there’s really nothing to lose, and restates the comment. This time, he tells the truth. “He’s the only thing interesting, I guess.”

Rose smirks. It’s a look that smolders, like hot coals in his palms. “Oh. Do you _like_ him? Are you perhaps having affectionate feelings for him?”

Dave scoffs at the suggestion, even though he knows it might be true. “What are you, five?”

“Six, actually.” Rose responds with an entirely straight face.

Despite being related to her, Dave finds himself unnerved by the display. He’s aware that this is exactly what Rose wants, but he can’t help it. Her particular brand of whit just happens to edge on unnerving. So, the second the car is parked, he scrambles to freedom, fleeing into the safety of the already dense convention crowd.

 

**13:00**

The ice cream being served at the concession area is far superior to the chicken. That’s not to say it’s immaculate Coldstone creamery confection quality, but it’s good. (Then again, perhaps ice cream is a hard thing to ruin, providing the source ice cream is, itself, palatable.) Dave’s small cup is already halfway empty, but its contents are rapidly melting. He tries desperately to balance the melting with avoiding a brain freeze. It’s an inelegant solution to an inelegant problem.

“You’re back?” A familiar voice draws Dave’s attention to a similarly familiar face. Karkat stands before him, arms folded defiantly across his chest. Gauze is wound around his left hand. “So, I guess they’ve dragged you back here again, probably kicking and screaming, right?”

“Tickets were seventy-five each, they won’t let me waste it.” Dave shrugs. He forgoes trying to actually eat the ice cream, and opts to begin slurping at it. “What’s with the hand? Get it caught in a ceiling fan?”

“Ha ha. No. I slipped with some leather tools. Stabbed myself in the palm. It’s not some big, horrible injury, but it was weird as fuck to get my ass escorted out by security.” There’s a brief pause. The unbandaged hand combs through Karkat’s hair, while he taps his other hand against his thigh.

“Ouch.” Dave frowns. “Who’s guarding your table?”

“Kanaya. I’m taking a break. Haven’t sold shit.” A grimace crosses Karkat’s face, a look that reminds Dave of the face someone makes when they smell leaking gas. “Buisiness hasn’t actually been all that great lately, anyhow.”

“No?”

“Nope. I’ve sold jack shit in the past few conventions I’ve been to. I’ll probably just...” From his pocket, Karkat draws a small pack of nicotine gum. He pops a bit into his mouth, and begins to chew. He shrugs. “I’m probably just going to shut this whole farcical bullshit brigade down after this year. Dad tried, we made a good effort, but the Vantas leather heritage just wasn’t meant to last in modern America.”

“You don’t think so?” Dave follows Karkat back to the booth. Unlike with Rose, he stays beside the other man, rather than lagging behind. “I mean...”

There’s a moment of silence. Despite the bustle of the convention, it feels as if it’s just the two of them.

Dave looks at the items on the table. They range from chainmail accessories to handmade jewelry. The leather pieces are lovingly displayed, their intricate detailing on full view.

“Your stuff is really, really fuckin’ good, dude. I don’t know what sort of Himbo Joe wouldn’t want to have it.” Dave rubs the back of his neck, and runs his fingers through his hair. His mouth is oddly dry; his fingers are twitching. “You’ve gots some talent. Surely, you’ve made some bank.”

“About three hundred.” Karkat shrugs. He returns to his seat, and cracks his knuckles.

Kanaya, meanwhile, offers Dave a knowing look, which he does his best to ignore.  “Well, good luck, Karkat,” she hums.

Karkat nods.

Dave, meanwhile, tries to keep the conversational momentum going, “That’s a fair amount of money.”

“I just broke even on my reserved spot. It’s not that great.” Karkat frowns. “I’ve been working out of the back of the old family van for weeks. Gas is expensive, too, so there’s that.” He rubs the back of his bandaged hand. “Why are you even still here, in my personal space?”

“I guess I just like talking to you,” shrugs Dave.

A small hum. A tilt of the head. Karkat sighs. “Fine. Whatever.” He reaches across the table, and plucks a business card from the stack. On the back, he scribbles some information. As he hands it to Dave, he offers what appears to be a faint smile. “That’s my PesterChum information, and my phone number. Text me, chat me, whatever the fuck you feel like doing. Maybe we could meet up after the artist alley section closes, around 10. There’s a late night dive bar nearby. Their food’s frankly shit, but their alcoholic selection is pretty decent.”

A fiery blush rushes to Dave’s cheeks as he takes the card. He pockets it quickly, then excuses himself. “Sounds great. Yeah. I’m going to go... uh... piss.”

“Thanks for the information, I guess?” Karkat mumbles, perplexed.

Dave scurries off.

 

**13:30**

“I don’t know shit about Karkat,” Dave admits, wringing his hands together. “He just seems like a nice guy.”

“He is.” Kanaya shrugs. “I can’t believe he gave you his information, but it is all correct and verified. What do you wish to know?”

“What sort of stuff does he like? I mean... what sort of dank nerd shit would I get for him here?” Dave pauses. Then, he rambles. “I mean, he seems down on his luck. Said something about working out of his car, so I’m sure he wouldn’t be able to afford anything really nice here. Uh...”

“He’s a huge fan of Chuck Dingle,” Kanaya says. “He’s here, signing autographs.”

“Isn’t he that weird erotica and romance author? Shit. What did I get myself into.”

“Don’t worry about it. Signatures are thirty a piece. If you pay fifty, he’ll sign a book. So,” Kanaya reaches into her purse. It’s specially designed to appear as if it’s part of her flowing Victorian gown. She takes out fifty dollars, and hands it to Dave, winking, as she continues, “I think a new friend would do Karkat some good. Go, get him that autograph. Don’t think this means I’ve forgiven you for getting unreasonably drunk at my wedding, though.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dave mumbles. He pockets the money, then trots off, joining a long line of people before the designated autograph table.

 

**16:00**

It takes Dave literal hours to make it though the line, partially because he had to leave a few times. Nonetheless, he eventually obtains the autograph, which he eagerly spirits away, back to Karkat’s table.

“Oh. You’re back. I told you to meet me at ten, dumbass,” Karkat mumbles. He stamps a metal rod against the leather. The heated design on the tip—of an interlocked K and V—burns itself into the surface. “What do you want?”

“I got you something,” Dave blurts. He slaps the signed book down, before Karkat.

The man offers a look of disbelief, followed by a wide grin. He snatches the gift up, and holds it close to his chest, like a precious heirloom. “Okay, maybe you're not as much of a douchewaffle as I thought you were. Don't let it go to your already inflated head.”

“I won't.” Dave feels a sense of pride in his accomplishment. He's made Karkat smile, and he's proven himself to be more than ‘that guy, who puked on me at my best friend's wedding’. “You wouldn't mind driving me back to the hotel, would you?”

“Huh?” Karkat pauses. No. He freezes. When he speaks, there's an edge of surprise in his words. “You're not from around here? You sure do sound like it.”

“Nah. I'm from Texas. I live with Rose, though. We're about three hours away. You?” Dave cocks his head to the side. It's something he hadn't considered, at least not until now. How wise would it be to enter a relationship with someone from who-knows-how-far away? Does it matter?

“I live in my van. I'm mostly from up north. I drove about twelve hours to be here.” Karkat's brows furrow. “Guess that's a bit of a logistics problem. Whatever. We'll figure that out later. I'll take your stupid ass back to your hotel.”

 

**22:00**

Dave and Karkat meet at the convention's exit.

Karkat's car is an old, beaten-up van. The paint is peeling, revealing the matte finish beneath. The passenger side door is a different color than the rest of the vehicle. When the pair enters, the suspension creaks and groans.

“Not the most attractive car,” Dave comments.

Karkat offers a snort of laughter. “You're not wrong.”

 

**22:15**

The dive bar specializes in serving Asian fusion food. Karkat confers with Dave, and purchases a large two-person serving of chicken and veggie dumplings, served with a sort of modified barbecue sauce. Though he passes on a drink, he purchases a fine apple cider for Dave.

“Thanks for the book,” Karkat mutters, thumbing gently through its pages. “I'm guessing Kanaya told you that I like this?”

“Yeah.” Dave blushes. He looks away. “Uh... Besides leather shit, what else do you like? I mean, I ain't being all frisky, or whatever. Don't take it the wrong way. What I meant to say was... Er... What're your other hobbies? You've gotta have some, right? Everyone has hobbies. Like, I play music. Sometimes I get paid by local places to mix some dope tunes, y'know? Spin some sick beats. Yeah.”

Karkat listens to the rambling with a surprising amount of patience. Only after Dave's voice has trailed off, and a few seconds of a tinny rendition of _Lay All Your Love on Me_ (by ABBA) has finished playing, does he speak. “I paint. I'm not that great at it, but I like doing it.”

“Cool. Cool.” A nervous smile creeps onto Dave's face. “I'm glad you like the gift. I was... a little late on saying this, wasn't I?”

“A little? You missed the fucking train. It's pulled out of the station, leaving you to wave at it, wildly, like the clueless buffoon you are.” Karkat laughs. It's a pleasant sound. A bit nasal, a bit low, and entirely unique. When he smiles, Dave notices a dimple on his right cheek. “You know what, though? It's the thought that counts. I'll forgive you.”

“Glad to hear.” Dave takes a sip of his drink.

 

**23:00**

Dave is not drunk, but he's a bit beyond tipsy. He laughs freely, smiles without care, and embraces Karkat indiscriminately.

“What you're telling me is that you didn't realize you were related to Rose for years?” Karkat snickers, “Have you  _spoken_ to her? You're both so fucking similar, it's goddamned frightening.”

“You're absolutely right,” Dave nods. He basks in the moment, the freedom to be himself, only to be interrupted by Karkat's next comment.

“It's getting late. I still need to finish up some projects and get ready for tomorrow.” He slides his sleeve down, to cover his watch. “I'll take you home. Or, I guess, back to that shitheel motel you're at.”

“Why don't I just stay with you tonight? Rose will bring me a new outfit in the morning.” The words fall from Dave's mouth before he can stop them. Once they're free, he's filled with terror. Was he too upfront?

Karkat, however, only smiles wider. “Why the fuck not? If you don't mind sharing a cot on the floor of my van, we should be good. Come on.” He takes Dave's hand, and leads him outside.


End file.
